


Bow and Quiver

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [35]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Legolas' First Bow, M/M, Mid-winter Feasts for elves, Teen!Legolas, Thranduil A+ parenting, elfling crushes are weird, elves are weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Mid-winter Feasts, so many years apart, two elflings receive their first bows.</p><p>Implied sad childhood, but more teen/parent miscommunication.......</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bow and Quiver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissFaust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaust/gifts).



> For MissFaust, who is planning a (more cheery) companion story.....  
> (will link when done)

“What seems to be the trouble here?”

I cannot help myself, I drop my eyes, I flush, I clutch it to me – and I know I make myself look guilty, I know he will lose patience – but – I cannot remember ever pleasing him, and I know – somehow – it will all be my fault.

It is always my fault.

“Legolas –“  
“- we found him – “  
“Edair – look what he is holding –“  
“- using – a bow – a Silvan bow –“  
“an ordinary Silvan bow,”  
“like any common hunter.”

It is my bow. He – they – gave it me. To practice with.

I do not have another bow.

My brothers are silent, waiting. They think they have made their point – I suppose they have.

He sighs, as he always seems to sigh when reminded of me. Impatient, frustrated with all my shortcomings.

I keep my eyes on the ground. Please, I think, please just – just turn away. Please do not take this from me. I am not skilled at many things – I am not skilled with this – but – it feels right in my hands. When I hold it, when I aim, when I loose, and – and even when I simply polish it, restring it, wax the string, I feel – as though I am – or may one day be – good at something.

Every day, he said, practice every day. And I do.

“Well,” Ada says, and I notice that this day he cannot even use my name, he does not call me ion-nin, he never calls me ionneth-nin as – as I suppose that some fathers might call their youngest, “show me this – this toy.” He reaches out his hand, and I have no choice – he is the King, he is Ada. I pass him the bow, and I manage to look up, to watch as he holds it, running his hands over it, examining it.

My brothers watch too, avidly, hoping, I suppose, that they have done well to bring this to his attention. I do not look at them, I do not want them to look at me. Go away, I think, go away. You have taken this from me – you do not have to stay and gloat. 

But at the same time, I know, and it is a shameful thing to admit, but – if they were to hold out their hands to me, to offer to – to touch my ears, comb me, show me how to hold a sword – as I have seen them with their sons – as I know they can be – I would think my bow, my dear bow, well-lost.

“No,” he says, and my heart sinks further, but, “no, it is a well-enough made little thing. Simple, but sufficient. Iont-nin, I thank you for bringing it to my attention, but – it is harmless folly. The child had best learn to hunt, you know.”

He looks at them, and they retreat, bowing out of his presence, as one does.

I am so relieved he has sent them away, I forget myself. I smile, I reach out to take back my bow – my dear bow – no, I reach out – I want – I so want – if he is not cross – perhaps – he will touch me, smile at me, maybe – maybe today I can please him and I say,

“Ada, I – thank you. Please – I am not very good yet – but I am trying. I think – I think I get better,” and then I cannot stop my foolish mouth, “I – come and watch me – please – I was at the range when they found me – I almost always hit the target now – and today – today – I managed a good cluster at the centre – please Ada – will you shoot with me?”

I do not know what I have said so wrong, but something in his face changes, he thrusts the bow at me, almost as though he cannot see me, and his voice is harsh as he says,

“Do not be so ridiculous, do you think I have nothing more important to do than watch you play? This nonsense has taken up far too much of my time already.”

He turns away, and I bite my lip, holding tight to this bow, this bow which now I have back in my hands, and – and for all this is what I hoped for, my bow returned, him turned away – I must try very hard indeed not to weep. Indeed, I feel the tears in my eyes, and I can only hold them back by thinking of my bowstring. It will do it no good at all to become wet.

As he walks away to the throne room, he says,

“You are too old now to be calling me Ada, Legolas. You are nearly of age, you may as well learn to address me properly.”

Had I not learnt long ago that there is no use in arguing, I would cry out and demand to know how it is that I am too old to be informal, when my brothers – some – I do not even know – centuries older than I – are not.

But I learnt that lesson well.

“Yes, my lord King,” I say, although I can only manage a whisper, my voice shakes so, “I – I am sorry.”

I do not know if he even hears me.

I take my bow to my chamber, I will not weep; if I am not a child any longer then – then I had best learn to be something more, and carefully, carefully I unstring it, I wipe it over, I wrap it well. I do not let myself think about my brothers, together I suppose, laughing, perhaps with – with their sons. I do not let myself think of them singing, combing. I do not let myself wonder why Ada will not watch me, teach me, as they say he used to watch them when the Queen – I cannot think of one I know not as Naneth – when the Queen taught them. 

Instead, all the time I am busy, I remember he who gave my bow to me – he and his friend – they watch me, sometimes, they encourage me – and I think – one day, one day I will be old enough to join their group. One day, perhaps, they will comb me, as I saw them comb together with others.

But – I am lonely now.

If I am too old to say ‘Ada’, then – then perhaps it is not Ada I want to comb me, I think. Not any more. Perhaps this longing is – is for someone – someone else. And I find – without my even meaning to think – I am picturing – someone else. Someone – kind, and – and gentle – and – Silvan.

I may be too old to say ‘Ada’, but, I find, I am not too old to wish to hold my oliphaunt very close, and feel it touch my ears, as it always has, and stroke it, and comb it as I comb myself, and tell myself that one day, one day, there will be other hands on me, others who will sing with me. One day there will be a group I can join.

His group.

If I practice, every day, practice, practice, practice, when that day comes, I will be ready.

 

 

 

Alone in his study, Thranduil sits at his desk and reads through the papers brought to him. 

There is a nagging feeling inside him that he has done something – something not well – something amiss – this day.

He does not wish to look at it.

But – eventually – he can hide no longer.

He puts down his pen, and listens a moment, until he is quite sure he is alone, that no helpful elf is about to come in. The door is shut, he sees, and so – he stares at nothing, and the glamour fades away. The feeling – it is not something he allows often – but the feeling reminds him of another time, of an elfling sat near, of a voice trying to offer comfort, offering a toy, a much-loved toy. He remembers how sweet and quiet he sat, how his little song was so – happy – but so quiet. He is a funny little thing. Not like the others. 

So hard to understand, to speak to.

Thranduil sighs.

He looks so like his brother. I – I suppose I should have gone and watched him with his bow. But – he is too like my Thalion. I cannot. I would only – be angry with him for not being as skilled as he. 

I would be angry that he is alive, that my Thalion is dead – and that I am alone.

I would ache to see him try to learn the one thing I cannot teach – as Thalion did – as the others did – but – without his mother here to help him.

Oh my Calenmiril. I cannot do this alone.

I miss you so.

I need you.

He sighs again. If he were any but Thranduil, one would say he is weeping. But Thranduil does not weep.

It was good to see his brothers taking care of him though, watching him practice. I suppose they think he should have a better bow.

Well.

It will be Midwinter soon. Perhaps then.

Yes.

As I told him, he is not a child anymore. He had best have an adult bow.

For a moment, Thranduil feels a stab of loss, that there is no longer a little elfling who will sit near him, singing quietly. 

He shakes himself – at least, were he any but Thranduil, one would say he shakes himself, but Thranduil is far too graceful, too polished for any such verb – this is foolish. That happened only once. He was never the sort of child to wish to be near me. He always preferred – unsuitable people. One can only hope he has grown out of that.

Sons grow up. 

Perhaps – perhaps as he grows up we will be able to come to know each other, speak together. I try – I have tried – to speak to him, but he hears me not. 

Perhaps if he is ready for more advanced lessons he will listen to me at last, and I can come to know this last son.

He had best learn to fight. I will not watch another son die.

 

 

 

Midwinter Feast is, I am told, a time for family, for elves to be close together and celebrate that the sun will return, a time of hope.

I do not like Midwinter Feast.

It is, I am told, as I am told every year, a time when little princes should be seen and not heard, should be very, very well-behaved and quiet, and good, and on no account go troubling their father the King.

But I am not little – he said – I am not a child any longer, I want to cry out – but – this Silvan – like all the Silvans – is fond of me, is kind, she is only trying to see I do not get into any mischief. So I nod, but I cannot help asking,

“Are – are my lords my brothers come?” please, I think, please sweet Elbereth, let them stay in their own Halls, let them celebrate with their wives and sons there.

Doroniel smiles at me,

“No,” she says, and I feel myself relax, “no, they are not come – they are not expected this time – it is not long since they were here. I think there will be only you and my lord King of our Sindar nobles here.”

I smile back.

And I feel a hope in my heart – if it is only he and I – surely – surely he will speak to me? And – at such a feast – there is much ear-touching – maybe – maybe if I am good – if I do nothing wrong – I know he does not comb – but – surely just once? 

If I am no longer a child – will he talk to me as an adult? Talk to me at all? Talk to me of – of anything?

If this is a time for family – is it too much to hope he might speak to me of – of his wife? Or of his father? Or – or anything? Not lecturing, not instructing, just – talking?

When I get to the Hall, I see the High Table is set for – many – and I realise how stupid I have been.

Again.

Of course it is not just he and I. We may be the only Sindar, but there are many who are important at court – we will not sit alone.

For a moment, I wonder if I will be sat near him – I am his only son here – perhaps – but no. Not very near.

Those I am sat near – and I suppose it is meant kindly – smile at me, and speak to me a little – but – they have their own concerns, their own interests. I listen, I eat a very little – I do not feel hungry, I feel sick with – with disappointment, and also with fear lest I do something foolish – I drink the wine.

I suppose they mean to be kind, but I feel very young – I am not a child, I remind myself, but – I am not able to join in the talk as an adult either. Occasionally they speak to me, and I try to answer – but I have not the skill with words most elves have. The talk around me turns to Midwinter presents – I forgot people give presents this day – and – I feel ashamed – it never occurred to me to give any of the Silvans who care for me a present. Not that I could, I have no skill in crafting – but – to not even have thought of it. 

Children do not give presents.

If I am not a child – then I should have thought.

It is not very princely behaviour.

But Lalfion smiles at me, and asks, 

“So, my prince, what did my lord King give you this Midwinter – my son – he is much younger than you – we made him a set of rings – quoits – for a throwing game – and he has had me busy fetching them and bringing them back to him all afternoon,” they all laugh, and I smile, wishing once again that this son of whom he speaks – that any of the Silvan elflings – lived at court. Even if he is so much younger. I – I would like – sometimes – I wish I had someone to play with. But they none of them do. 

And, I remember, I am not a child. I am too old to play.

“Come,” he continues, “what was your present?”

I shake my head, and force myself to answer, 

“I think – it is not a Sindar tradition,” I say, “my lord King does not – he is not one for presents.”

I look at the table, I do not want to see them exchange glances, I do not want to hear if Ada – my lord King – was in the habit of giving my brothers presents on this day when they were young.

The talk moves on, swiftly.

I sit silent.

I wonder – if I am not a child – should I perhaps have thought to have a gift for my lord King? 

But what could I possibly give him?

He is the King. All in this land belongs to him already.

Whatever I had thought to craft – it would not have pleased him. I would, I am sure, have got it wrong.

So why bother?

Besides, it is, I think, it must be, a Silvan custom. I would only be rebuked for forgetting my Sindar heritage.

It must be a Silvan custom, I tell myself, that is why he has never gifted me.

He does love me.

In his own way.

I cannot even see him, sat here at the end of the long table. But why should that matter?

I sit silent as the Silvans around me rejoice.

The feasting becomes drinking, becomes singing, becomes dancing, and I – I think it is time I went to my chamber. Soon enough they will be beginning to choose combing groups, and I – I know I am too much the child to comb with any here as an elf among elves, hunters, warriors, yet I am not enough of a child to be fussed and combed by any as once I was. Too much the Sindar in truth to have been combed so these long years. Caught between child and adult, I have none with whom to comb – I know it is the age where most comb with their family – but Ada does not comb. And my brothers – do not comb me.

I do not wish to sit here alone any longer. I look to where my lord King – I try so hard to think of him as that – sits, to see if I may leave, but – my movement must catch his eye, and he beckons me.

I go to him, and I am about to kneel, when he says,

“No Legolas, you need not today. It is Midwinter – no such formality required,” he stops, and nervously I wonder if I should thank him, or bow, or – or what am I supposed to do – but then he clicks his fingers to a servant and watches as the elf goes to fetch something. “It is perhaps time you had this,” he says, “and be done with that toy I saw you with before.”

The servant has returned carrying – a bow.

It is very lovely.

New.

An adult sized one.

It is the first gift I can remember him ever giving me. Because I am no longer a child, I suppose. I fight the impulse to – to smile, to try and touch him, to chatter. I am not a child. I must not act like one. 

I must receive the gift as any of his elves would.

An adult bow and quiver.

He – he must mean to let me learn properly. Perhaps I can cease the hated sword practice, perhaps – perhaps he will even watch me use this. 

Maybe.

He is the King. He watches his warriors train sometimes.

The servant hands it to me.

“Thank you, my lord King,” I say, carefully, trying for courtly phrasing, trying to sound as he does, cold and adult, not as I feel inside, excited and hopeful, “I am – very grateful. I – I will begin to practice with it tomorrow – if – if that would please you?”

He shrugs, and I see I have done something – said something – wrong again. 

I do not know what.

I never do.

“It is yours,” he says, a wave of his hand implying it matters little to him, “use it, or not, as you will. I shall not be coming to the range to inspect your progress.”

No.

I had not really supposed you would, Ada, I think, and I swallow down the tears, the ache that for a moment – I wondered if you might.

Instead I make a little sort of half-bow, holding my body tense and stiff – I will not tremble, I will not show my hurt – and thank him again, formally bidding him good-night and joyous Midwinter, before I go to my own chamber.

Alone.

I look at the bow, and it is a lovely thing. 

I wonder if he even saw it before tonight, or if he just told someone to have such a thing ready.

I wonder if he even thought of it, or if someone mentioned to him that it would be time for me to own such a thing.

It is much better than my old one. Much more polished, beautifully engraved. 

I suppose I had best use it.

He will be cross if I do not. For a moment, I wonder if he would know – but he would. The King knows everything of the life of every elf in his land.

Even me.

But – I shall keep the old one. That Silvan who gave it me – he said it was his once. He might want it back – I suppose – he may one day have a child who would like it. 

I do not like the idea of him having a child – helping another – his hands on theirs as he holds my hands, his arm round their shoulder as he holds me when he shows me what I do wrong.

Sometimes I make mistakes deliberately, if he is there, that he will show me again. I – I do not know why I like it so when he holds me – but – I know that I prefer him to any other. And I do not like the idea of him marrying, having a child.

I scrub my eyes with the sleeve of my festive tunic. Stupid. What matters it whether he marries, has a child or not? He is grown-up, he has his own friends – and I – I am just a foolish not-quite-elfling. 

Ada – my lord King – gave me this lovely bow.

Why am I not more pleased?

Why is it that – despite the rejection I felt in the Hall tonight when he turned away, when he did not speak, when he was not interested in me – it is not Ada I am thinking of as I touch my ears, as I comb myself, sitting alone in my room, looking at this lovely bow?

Why do I feel I would rather have the old one, rather not be a prince, rather – rather go back to the Hall, or the range, or – out into the Forest – and find Caradhil, and have him teach me to shoot?

He teaches me. He watches me. When he can, when he has time.

I do not only want him to teach me to shoot. I want him to talk to me, I want – I do not really know what I want. I want to sing with him. I want – I want something – something I have never had. I want him to touch my ears. I – I want him to comb me. In a group. I know – I have heard the others say – he is not one to vow, not one to comb with any alone.

He combed me once. I remember. It was the day he took me on a horse – I was very small – he was kind to me.

I do not know if he remembers. I doubt it mattered much to him.

But to me – I remember that day.

And I think of it. When I am alone. When – when oliphaunt is not enough. 

When I let myself dream that one day – one day there will be someone who wants to comb me.

He – he will – perhaps – one day – comb me.

And I feel my ears flush at the thought.

The bow lies, forgotten.

 

 

 

Thranduil sits alone at the High Table, his elves dancing, drinking, singing – making merry.

Soon enough he will leave them to it – he will go to his own chamber, alone.

He does not let himself sigh, he does not let himself show the hurt he feels that the bow – the bow he spent time planning the engravings on – the bow which he thought would please his son – has been accepted with only the most cold and formal of thanks.

Thanks addressed to a king, not to a father.

He does not let himself feel the hurt that this son so rarely shows any affection. There was that one time, once. Usually – he is as he was tonight. Cold, reserved, timid.

No, not timid. Timid once perhaps, when he was small. Now – now he is merely cold.

Formal.

What kind of son, he wonders, uses the word Ada until he is almost adult, and then – then suddenly – becomes so very formal? Addresses his Edair as ‘my lord king’, goes to kneel, to bow? 

A son who does not want anything much from his father, he supposes, a son who has found all he needs among the Silvans. So much so that he begins to act as one.

He decides he will not, as he had planned, surprise the prince at the range – not tomorrow – no-one is at their best the first time they try a new weapon – nor in a few days time. It would be satisfying to see him competent with it – but the thought of another cold reception chills him. 

If it hurt to see him eager and wanting praise as my Thalion was eager – and it did, oh it did, but I had resolved to try, to try and meet him on this, if this is what matters to him – but how much worse to see the likeness of my Thalion – my dear Thalion – my beloved son – look at me, and turn away, preferring to hear the praise of others.

It is quite likely, it seems to Thranduil, that Legolas will not even use the bow.

He resolves to try again, perhaps through sword-lessons, to speak to his son. After all, he is Sindar, he must remember that, must learn to act as is expected sometimes, even if it is not the way he would prefer to live.

Very few of us can live as we choose.

Time together.

Perhaps that is what is needed.

He cannot know that it is not time with his Ada that Legolas is dreaming of tonight.

 

 

 

 

I remember my first bow. The first bow I loved, the first bow I touched, held, that taught me I might – might – one day amount to something.

I remember the elves who gave it me.

One is dead now, dead and mourned this long age.

The other – this Midwinter, I am – finally – able to return the gift.

There is nothing, I have found, that dwarves cannot make, and make well, and make beautiful. I used my own money – money I earnt – to pay for it. 

The first money I have spent on anything that is not a gift for my love.

And now, this Midwinter Feast, I go to her. His daughter – the child I once dreaded he would have, the beloved child of whom I would once have been so jealous.

“Teglwyn Caradhiliel,” I say, “I wish you a joyous Midwinter,” and I kneel by her as she sits at the table, and offer her the bow. 

I see the shine in her eyes as she takes it, 

“I thank you,” she says, and she holds it, and – and it looks right in her little hands. “Will you teach me?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to realise she is looking at me.

“Me? No,” I say, and I shake my head, but then I see both my love and her father frown at me, and I see her face, and – and I hear Ada in my words, hear the coldness and rejection that I do not mean, so, “yes, if you want me to I will try – but – I would rather watch you learn. There is one who taught me – and he is still the best archer I have ever seen. And the most patient teacher,” I look at him, and then back to her, “your Ada was shooting deer before I was born.”

She looks at me, and then at Caradhil, and I wonder what she thinks. 

“All the same,” she says, “I would like to be able to say Legolas, lord of Ithilien, first taught me to hold a bow.”

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. She is a – deep – one, this Tegylwen.

“Then if your Ada and Naneth do not mind, of course I will,” I say, and I look at them for permission.

Meieriel nods, 

“There will be many more than one lesson needed,” she says, “I daresay we will be grateful for any help by the end.”

I grin at her, but my smile fades as I look at Caradhil. He nods, but he does not speak for a moment. Then, 

“Who would be taught by me, when they could ask their Sindar ruler for guidance?” he says, and I think he is trying to laugh, but – he cannot. I get up, and I go to him, in this moment I see only his pain, I think only of how he has always – always – cared for me, and I care not what anyone else thinks, I stand before him, I take his hands and pull him up into an embrace – an unelflike embrace, but at this moment I care not – and I say,

“I remember one elfling who always would.” And, hesitantly, I reach up to his ears, and he touches mine, as we look at one another, and I know I am forgiven everything, as he always, always forgives me.

There is a long moment before we move apart, but as we sit down my love is on his feet, and; 

“But I think that is quite enough of bows, and weapons,” he says, “tonight is supposed to be fun. Taithel Meierielion, I think this might be more fun for you,” and he gives him the – whatever it is – he has bought.

There is a moment when they are the only two who can see it, and I hear the elfling squeal in excitement, then there is some – I do not know – explaining of – of whatever it is – and then – then it is on the table, and moving – and – oh dear Eru, he has not.

He has.

Oh sweet Elbereth.

It is large, a moving, scuttling spider.

Black and vicious looking, and all the elves – all we older elves – all we elves who were born and lived long ages in Mirkwood, as it was – we are reaching for daggers, and breathing hard, and I think – I think it is a good thing that our reactions are not only fast to danger, but fast to calm also.

It is clockwork.

Taithel is, of course, delighted. His parents put a brave face on it – though I cannot help thinking that this is one more thing my poor Caradhil will have to forgive me. 

I look at my love, sitting once more beside me, and he grins,

“Couldn’t resist it when I saw it,” he says, and then he sees my face – or, I suppose, he hears my song, hears the hurt in me that he should take my memory of an early terror and bring it here, to this land, to this family, as a toy. I do not speak, but I let him see my upset, and I sit back in my place, turned slightly away from him.

“Daft sodding elf,” he whispers in my ear, and I – I can never steel myself to resist his blandishments. I try though, I keep turned away, even as his arm goes round me, as he whispers – at least, he thinks he whispers, although he forgets elven hearing – he whispers, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t not get it for him, its hard having such an accomplished sister, I wanted him to have something of his own.” 

I understand, I do, and I know Taithel is delighted. Just – I cannot forget the first time I saw such things.

“Do you not want your present?” he asks, and I huff, still turned away, but, “it is not jewellery, for once. Come on, pretty Le-las, forgive me, and see what I found for you.”

No. Not looking.

And calling me that is not going to help.

“It is lonely. I promised it a good home. And – will you not come travelling with me, see far off lands?”

For a moment, I cannot believe it. Then I turn and he is indeed holding something out to me – something – something I thought I would never see again. I take it, and it is perfect, just as I remember, and it squeaks just as it used, and,

“Oh Gimli-nin,” I say, and I know it is very, very foolish, but – I cannot but take it, and hold it close, and let it stroke my ears, and – oh it is indeed lovely, “Gimli-meleth, you found me oliphaunt.”

He shrugs, 

“Had to explain it,” he says, “but – there will be more where that came from. This one is special though.” 

And I look, and yes, this one – this one has jewels for eyes, and on its stomach – “Nearest we reckoned to the heart,” he says – it carries runes for – for both our names.

“Daft bloody dwarf,” I say, he laughs as he holds me, and I find that perhaps – perhaps I can let go of all the hurt, all the times I ached for love, because now – now I have all I could ever want.

 

 

 

Thranduil sits alone at the High Table, watching his elves dance, and sing, and celebrate Midwinter Feast as they do.

He is the King.

He will not leave his elves, will not return to his rooms, to the silence that awaits him there – it might be a relief to do so, but it would also be hurtful, it would be a rejection of his Silvans.

He may have been a failure as a son, a husband, a father, but he will not fail as King.

His elves do not mean to hurt him by their joy.

It is not their fault he is alone.

It is not their fault his father died.

It is not their fault his son – his beloved Thalion – choked out his life on the same battlefield.

It is not their fault his wife sailed West, in desperate need of the healing only those lands could give her.

It is not their fault his other two sons became so remote, so lost to him, that in the end, he was glad when they left his realm, and went to Lorien that he need see them no more.

It is not their fault his youngest son was always so hard to know, so cold – and now – is gone to his own realm, or that of his dwarf – but Thranduil shies away from the thought of the dwarf.

None of it is his Silvans’ fault.

He will not deprive them of their King’s presence at such a Feast.

He does not let the memories of other Midwinter Feasts into his mind. 

He does not let himself remember his own parents, or the years of happiness with wife and children.

He does not let himself remember the last child, so hard to please, so quiet.

He tries once more to forget that he was ever ‘Ion-nin’, ‘melethron-nin’, ‘Ada’, ‘Edair’, ‘Daerada’, and above all, to forget the pain of being called ‘my lord King’ by that youngest son, and hearing the same voice speak of a dwarf as ‘Gloin-Ada’. 

As for the agony of hearing his child – her child – our last little one – speak of a – a female dwarf as ‘Naneth’, and knowing that his own beloved wife has always been merely ‘the Queen’ in that child’s mind – there are not words for the pain.

Fortunately, Thranduil is good at hiding behind his glamour. 

He sits in silence, beautiful, remote, cold.

King of the Woodland Realm, King of Eryn Lasgalen, beloved and trusted King of his Silvans, he plays his part, the only role he has left to him.

Inside, he aches with loneliness.

**Author's Note:**

> Sindarin  
> (at least, still not a scholar, so hope this is right)  
> ion - son  
> nin - my  
> neth - little  
> iont - pair of sons  
> ada - daddy  
> edair - father


End file.
